Of Curses and Madness
by sadieB798
Summary: John Hamish Watson, being thirty-two years of age, had convinced himself that nothing of spectacular importance would ever happen to him again because nothing ever happened to the eldest child. This is the story of how wrong he would be. Crossover with "Howl's Moving Castle". IN-PROGRESS
1. Prologue

_This story was inspired by a ridiculous image of Sherlock preforming magic in order to irritate John (though I suppose it really only makes sense to write this crossover story as I do have a tendency of drawing John as a crotchety old man)._  
_This sort of follows the plot-line of the book "How's Moving Castle" by Diana Wynne Jones rather than the movie (although there are some pieces of the movie that will be included as well). Though I really only used the original plot-line as a rough guideline as I'll be adding on a lot of different things not found in either book or movie, some things from the show Sherlock and from Arthur Conan Doyle's original stories._  
_After all Ms. Jones provided the playground and I'm just supplying the toys, and these are the characters of Sherlock we're talking about and they wouldn't really do exactly what the characters from the book would do and it would be very boring and dull if I did a play-by-play of the book and movie and I'm going to shut up now and get down to the story so you can see for yourself._  
_Thanks to my beta sunny-confusion for encouraging me with her enthusiasm when I told her of the crazy project I had in mind!_

* * *

**PROLOGUE**

There are several different ways to tell this story.

One way would be to begin with the end and work backwards (but undoubtedly this would be utterly confusing and irksome and lose half our dear readers). Another way would be to begin with the days when Sherlock's training was still taking place. In those final days, Sherlock had become utterly bored with the company in which he found himself with and had turned to drugs in order to escape the mundane. Suffice to say, this did not work out for Sherlock for quite some time until much later towards the end of our story (or is it more towards the middle? It's difficult to say exactly when things began to change for the better-although in truth, it depends on whom you ask.

(For example, Mrs. Hudson would say that the moment she knew things would end very well for her boys was when she caught Sherlock placing a blanket over John's sleeping form when the good soldier had dozed in front of the fire. Sherlock's hand-which had only meant to brush against his companion's shoulder-when, perhaps of its own accord, lingered longer than what should have been a moment's movement.

(Lestrade would say that it had occurred to him on the very day he met John, which had been the first time Sherlock had ever brought anyone with him to a crime scene. He would say that at the time, Sherlock was much more willing to take the police through his deductions without much insult than usual. Quite the change.

(Sally could care less. Her only comment would be that John must be a freak too based on the way he practically tripped over his own feet to follow after the King of Freaks.

(Sally is a feeble-minded idiot and should be ignored.)

The last way-and perhaps the best way-would be to tell you John's side of the story, and how a perfectly normal bloke ended up in the castle of a madman surrounded by magic, murder and mystery.

Yes I believe John's story is the best way to begin, if only in order for you to fully understand how the events led up to the end.

But before our story actually begins, we must go back a bit.

* * *

John Watson was a remarkable boy. (I say 'was' not because John is dead-far from it, in fact, as John is still very much alive-but only because when John had left for The War, he returned an entirely different person. But, unbeknownst to everyone-including John himself-somewhere deep down in his bones, he was in fact the same person he had been before he left.)

John Watson was a remarkable boy only because, to the people of Market Chipping, it was the polite way of saying that he was very unusual. John had a caring nature, was always willing to help others to no end, and had an unbent stubbornness.

Admittedly, this was not unusual; in fact it was very good that he was all those things. What was unusual was that John was eldest of three and he was all these things, for in the land of Ingary it was considered a misfortunate to be born the eldest of three because everyone knew the eldest was always the one who would fail the first-as well as the worst-if the three of you went out to seek your fortune.

John Watson was the son of hatters. His parents owned a ladies hat shoppe, and the Watsons were known far and wide as great hatters. He had just turned seven when his mother died. His father, knowing he could not possibly keep tabs on John as well as run his business, remarried to his pretty shoppe assistant, Fanny.

Shortly afterwards, Molly was born. Then shortly after her, Harriet was born.

Mr. Watson was very proud of his children and sent them all to the finest school in town.

It was there that John discovered his love of adventure through books, and-despite what everyone in Market Chipping said about the curse of the eldest born-had strong ambitions to go off and seek his fortune. Fanny was far too busy to look after both Harriet "Harry" and Molly, so the task fell onto John, who often ended up in vicious rows with Harry. John and her never got on. They were as agreeable to each other as oil is to water.

Which made Molly the person who would always have to break them apart.

Despite his attitude towards Harry, John enjoyed looking after his sisters, in particular Molly-who was the most congenial of the two-and encouraged them both to seek their fortunes.

As for the Watson girls, Harry had no interest in schooling and often skipped classes, preferring the company of the town delinquents to her books. In fact she was brought home more than once escorted by the town constable. Molly, not to John's surprise, became fond of human anatomy and biology. But where John wanted to protect the living, Molly was fascinated with dissecting the dead.

"I don't see why schooling's necessary," complained Harry as the three Watsons sat underneath a tree by the river where Harry lounged as she waited for a fish to bite.

"It's a bit important if you want to seek your fortune," retorted John as he and Molly poured over school books a good ways away from the river.

Harry snorted. "You watch, John, I can be successful without schooling!"

"And if you can't?" John asked.

Harry scowled and pursed her lips angrily. "Then I shall marry a prince! So _there!"_

Molly piped up, hoping to avoid another fight, and said with an awkward smile, "I should like to be successful by my own hand."

This was Molly's attempt at a joke. Her older siblings remained silent as they continued their stare-down and ignored her comment (as was their custom). Molly's eyes cast downward as she added a quiet explanation, "Because I am fascinated with the mortuary profession..."

* * *

John had been seventeen when The Trouble first began.

The Witch of the Waste had threatened the life of the King's fiancée, a princess from the next land over, and had vowed she would make good on her death threats if their wedding took place. As a response, the King of Ingary sent three of the most trusted wizards in his employment to deal with her. Suffice to say that none of these wizards came back successful (or alive. In fact they came back unsuccessful _and_ torn to unrecognizable pieces). For three years, tensions built up between the two kingdoms, as neither knew what to do about this very serious threat. They ended up fighting amongst each other in their panic and the disastrous result was that the contracted engagement between the kingdoms was broken and war was immediately declared.

John had been twenty and just finishing with his schooling when the castle appeared in the hills above Market Chipping.

He remembers it with distinct clarity: tensions had still been high between the two kingdoms and the threat of war was hanging heavily in the air like cigar smoke; he had been out walking when he saw a large crowd. The people of the crowd were all chattering loudly, saying different things, each of them coming up with their own story behind it, a few were screaming; each reaction different. The one thing that they all had in common were their faces: they all held some sort of fear and panic. Most of them were pointing and looking up at the far hills, John followed the direction they were looking and he saw it.

The castle was big, dark and ominous looking, with two tall, thin turrets that billowed clouds that changed colors. Most times these clouds were as black as midnight, and other times green like moss or a blood red color. It was an amazing sight, admittedly, but it was more frightening as the castle never stayed in one place. Sometimes it was a dark smudge against the far green hills of the north, other times it would sit in the heather just beyond the last farm to the west, once or more it had even come down into the valley over Market Chipping, looming over the small town like a dark shadow.

Everybody understandably thought that The Witch had come to wreak havoc upon the poor people of Market Chipping and so everyone took on what they thought were necessary precautions.

No one went out at night, in particular the young women were warned to travel in pairs or have an escort at hand if travel was really necessary. Due to the shortage of young men his age, John found himself often escorting not only his sisters but also other young girls of the town. The level of fear got so bad, that most times John would have to escort a large crowd of terrified girls to their homes. Though a few times, John would be left blessedly alone with a girl he fancied at the time. At first, he was quite happy to be alone with them-though this feeling never lasted as he would spend the entire evening reassuring the young ladies that nothing would cause them harm and settling their fears when they got frightened at the smallest thing. It was, understandably, quite irksome when he'd try and flirt with them, for they were so fret with worry they were not even aware of his advances.

In the end John gave up trying to woo any of them.

The town's fears were eventually settled as time passed and the castle only remained in the hills, a distance away from the town. It was learned some time later that the owner of the castle was not The Witch of the Waste, but a wizard. No one knew exactly who this wizard was or where he had come from, and soon afterwards stories began to circulate about him. The popular belief was that the wizard had a taste for the souls of young girls and would steal them away in the night, and keep their hearts in jars upon the shelf as souvenirs.

But it soon became apparent that the owner of the castle had no interest in Market Chipping when the billowing clouds escaping from the castle's turrets came out spelling words.

Once or twice the word _bored _could be made out distinctly against the backdrop of the clear blue sky.

Then the messages (which had been sporadic at best) began to become more frequent, eventually becoming a daily occurrence. It was then that the one syllable words morphed into full-on sentences.

It started with "_It is the baker"._

Everyone was baffled; no one knew what this could have meant.

Like wildfire, theories about the wizard's mysterious message began to spring up and spread; each theory more ludicrous than the last. Eventually the answer came about through an agent of the king. One of the businesses in Market Chipping was part of a powerful underground crime ring located in the country's capital that had been dispatched to gather intel on the town. But the King's police did not know which business was the informant or even how messages were being sent back to the crime ring.

It was the baker: he had been hiding encrypted codes in the blackberry pies and was giving them to the crime ring's foot soldiers who in turn would pass along the messages to their bosses. Soon afterwards, the baker and the soldiers were arrested and convicted.

The reaction was mixed. Some were amazed by the wizard's knowledge of the situation that had been invisible to even the King's agents, while most were disturbed. No one could figure out how the wizard-who lived in the castle beyond the town-had known not only about the situation that had been kept close under wraps, but also who the culprit was.

Another popular explanation was that the wizard was a mind-reader (which ended up fueling the soul-eating story: that the wizard could control your thoughts and convince you to come away with him so he could steal your heart).

Then the messages went back to being one syllable words. The odd occasional sentence appearing randomly only when a mystery, no matter how small, needed solving. Very soon after that, the castle had begun to be viewed as a backdrop and everyone in Market Chipping lost interest in it, returning to the very strong possibility of war.

Everyone except John.

As he made his way through town, John would note that each day, a new message was spelled out amongst the clouds. Words like _tedious_, _idiots_, and _so obvious_ and other such insults would appear in the sky. The only consistency was the fact that it was always a different message painted in the sky each day, every day but always at different times. Sometimes there'd be black words against the clear blue, red words at midnight, or green words at dusk.

John slowly found himself looking up at the skies for the next message at all times of the day. A small smile would spread on his face when he found a new word painted in the sky. He even began to document each word and became eager for the new day to bring about the next message.

* * *

When the expected war was announced, men were called to arms. That first week when drafting stations were set up, John looked up at the now-familiar castle. He wondered what the wizard thought about all this war business. He probably wouldn't be bothered with it, as wizards lived a very long time and so rarely concerned themselves with the short-lived mortals and their destructive antics. John had to admit that he and the wizard had something in common: they were both bored of Market Chipping.

Apart from the wizard's messages in the air, nothing new or unexpected ever happened. It was the same slow-moving pace day in and day out, with the same, unchanging routine and John was sick of it. John had never voiced his boredom with the town before, so it came as a great surprise to everyone when he announced he had enlisted into the army. Despite his family's pleading, and the insistence from everyone around him that he would only fail, John boarded the train headed to the training grounds with a third of the men from Market Chipping. He was determined that he would prove everyone wrong; that the eldest _could_ be successful their first time out.

He had to admit that the army had been hard, but nothing he couldn't handle. He spent two years in training before he was sent to join the fight in the front lines. John spent seven years altogether in the army, and during that time he was rising through the ranks so steadily that by the time he was twenty-seven, he was already captain.

Then he got shot.

John's only thought as the bullet ripped through the muscles in his shoulder and he was thrown backwards was that he knew he shouldn't have gotten out of bed that morning.

It wasn't until he had gotten out of surgery that he received a telegram from his stepmother. She wrote to inform him of his father's sudden death.

But that wasn't the only news that the telegram contained. Apparently Mr. Watson had been a little too proud of his children, for their school fees had all but crippled the Watsons with heavy debts. John was still recovering when the funeral took place, and over the next few weeks he corresponded with his stepmother to try and assess their situation. It was clear that Molly and Harry could not return to their school, as it was far too expensive for them to continue with their schooling and John's military pension could do very little to relieve them of their current situation, much less pay for them to finish their schooling.

During that time John hated his father. Throughout his life, John had admired his father and idolized him for being the kind and loving man that he was-but his actions had severely damaged their family, and that was neither kind nor loving of him. Though John hated his father mostly on Molly's behalf. He knew how much she loved school, and that receiving an education was important to her, and although she smiled and carried on, John knew that inside she was devastated beyond belief.

I'm afraid to say that John didn't forgive his father for a long while for wronging his younger sister.

* * *

Fanny had explained that the only way for her to take care of the three of them as well as keep the shop would be to set them all up in promising apprenticeships.

By the time John was discharged, Fanny had it all figured out.

She had arranged Molly to apprentice in the pastry shop Cesari's in Market Square a ways away from the family hat shoppe, while Harry was to be sent to apprentice under Mrs. Fairfax, an old schoolfriend of Fanny's as well as a witch. Under Mrs. Fairfax's tutelage, Harry would make several promising relations with her mistress's clients and connections in Kingsbury.

As for John, I'm sorry to say, he would be apprenticing under his stepmother to learn more about the hat trade.

You can imagine, John's immense disappointment. He would be returning to Market Chipping to learn the trade of his father's business that he would undoubtedly inherit one day. Although in his favor, John knew a lot of the business's goings-on already. In fact even as a young boy, he would help around the shoppe and there was little else Fanny had to teach him. When John brought this up to her, Fanny only insisted on his returning to help around the shoppe. He agreed only for simplicity's sake.

And so this was John: twenty-seven years old, an ex-solider shot down at the height of his career, with an intermittent tremor in his left hand, a psychosomatic limp and nightly terrors where he could taste blood mixed with sand. He felt like damaged goods for all his worth. And as though it couldn't have gotten any worse, he was returning to the painfully dull, dreadfully predictable Market Chipping (this was the worst part for him: returning to the mundane town) only because his family needed him and he had no other choice.

It had seemed the curse of the eldest had caught up to him.

Nobody in Market Chipping had the heart to say 'I told you so' when they saw the ex-soldier pathetically make his way slowly down the cobbled streets with his cane in hand and a perpetual scowl on his face. It was clear to all, that he was not the same easy-going man he had been before he left.

This caused John to isolate himself from people, becoming almost a hermit in his ways. Although it was really the people of Market Chipping who were to blame as they were avoiding John. They were afraid, should he be provoked, he'd take out all his repressed aggressions out on them, after all John _had_ been a soldier; he could kill people. Though they never vocalized this, their eyes said it all for them. Each time John saw someone he'd known from his younger days, their eyes looked at him with pity before they quickly turned away from him.

God he hated them.

The only thing that kept changing, and yet remained the same, was the cloud messages in the blue sky the castle in the hills billowed up. Somehow the sight of them managed to lift John's hopes, however slightly the action might be.

John was determined: he made it clear to everyone working in the hat shoppe, Fanny especially, that his position in the shoppe was only temporary until they could get out of the hole, then after that he would leave Market Chipping behind and seek out his next adventure.


	2. Chapter 1: In Which John is Weary

**CHAPTER ONE**

IN WHICH JOHN IS WEARY OF HIS DREARY LIFE

That was five years ago. John was still at the hat shoppe and would have very likely remained there had the events not happened the way they had (and thank goodness they had!).

During the five years under Fanny's apprenticeship, John had had every job the shoppe could offer him. First he had trimmed hats, and although John was a deft man with a needle (he had been even before he had to help patch up wounded comrades), but the tremor in his hand would come and go so unexpectedly, that it proved to be quite difficult when the task of adding wax fruit or flowers to hats was called for.

Next he became a salesman, and that was almost disastrous. John was a likable enough bloke, but he would knock over displays with that damnable cane of his and would sometimes lose his temper when he was frustrated, thereby driving away customers.

Then John was set to stacking boxes. He was immediately taken off this job as he could not be off his cane for even a moment without falling over.

Eventually John was set with the task of going out and dealing with the clothier and silk merchant to bargain over prices and goods. He found he was much more useful in this post since he was not only good at haggling, but he was also not being asked to trim hats, sell hats or stack hats-in fact John was very glad that the only contact he came into with anything hat-related was the silks and fabrics he was purchasing that would eventually be made into hats. Ultimately John realized why he had had such a problem working inside the shoppe in the first place since his return (and maybe this had been the problem he'd had all his life with the place, he wasn't sure). He found the shoppe stuffy, with its close-quarters and watchful workers and after seven years of sun, wind and sand it was no wonder he was not accustomed to being cooped up inside all day. So, although the nearest clothier and silk merchant was half a mile away from the shoppe and over cobbled, uneven streets, and the walk made his leg ache, John preferred being out in the fresh air to the stuffy old shoppe.

And if he could still clearly see the castle's messages sprawled lazily across the sky, well that was an added bonus.

And so before he knew it, John Hamish Watson, being thirty-two years of age, had convinced himself that nothing of spectacular importance would ever happen to him again because nothing ever happened to the eldest child.

This is the story of how wrong he would be (as well as where it begins).

* * *

All around Market Chipping, the townspeople were galavanting and crowding the streets for the May Day celebration. Banners flew high in the air, streamers decorated the threshold of each resident and business front, while several residences overhead had opened their windows as the occupiers tossed out colorful confetti; the light breeze drifted them downwards into the streets.

Although the happy atmosphere of the May Day festivities were infectious, John had trouble getting into the spirit as he was jostled to no end by children racing past or by couples dancing up either end of the streets as he relied on the aid of his cane to keep him balanced. He only glared once or twice, but for the most part John grit his teeth through the pain and carried on walking. He reassured himself that he only had two more streets to go before he reached Cesari's, his intended destination.

He had to admit he was very excited at the thought of visiting his sister. Apart from the occasional letter, he hadn't seen or heard from either of his sisters. The last time he had seen either of his sisters was the day he left for the army.

That was twelve years ago.

The only reason John hadn't seen Molly, as she explained in her occasional letter and through common knowledge throughout town, was because business had been picking up and she was always busy. As for Harry, apart from a letter that she'd send once a year, John had heard very little. From what he'd read though, Harry was doing fine, Mrs. Fairfax was good to her, but the work was tough and time-consuming.

Cesari's would undoubtedly be busier than usual considering the holiday, but John couldn't stand it anymore, he _had_ to see Molly which was exactly why he was hobbling down uneven cobbled streets, working his way through hoards of people as they continuously pushed past him.

At last he reached Cesari's and as he had predicated, the place was crowded with people-the best way of describing the state of the pastry shop was that it was _packed._ The crowd was made up of mostly men.

They were all crowded around the sales-counter and smiling as they shouted inappropriate suggestions at the girl taking their orders. John, not a very tall man, had to stand on tip-toe to see past the heads of his fellow men. His eyes widened in surprise when he discovered that the girl receiving all these indecent proposals was his little sister. Anger bubbled up inside John as his protective, older brother instincts began to take over, when he noticed something even more shocking than his previous discovery.

Molly by nature was incredibly socially-awkward, a trait that had made her quite shy as a girl, leaving her to prefer the company of cats and daisies as opposed to actual people. She would often get teased by the other children and more than once John had beat up children twice his size if they so much as _looked_ at Molly funny.

But there was Molly-incredibly shy, awkward Molly who loved books and cats and the idea of cutting up cadavers-laughing off the men's advances, hitting them playfully and acting just as loud and boisterous as the men who surrounded her.

John was dumbstruck. Not only had her entire personality undergone a transformation, but her appearance changed as well: her hair was cut so that the back was just past the nape of her neck, while the front still remained relatively long. But instead of auburn, her hair had been tinted lighter; almost blond.

It was right at that moment that Molly turned her head towards his direction and noticed her big brother, surprise clearly written on her face. "John!" she shouted over the men's voices.

"Can we talk?" he shouted in response as he made his way closer to the counter. It was no easy task; it felt like every man in the entire country was gathered in that shop, separating him from his sister.

A mischievous smile that had no place on Molly's sweet features filled her face. "Give me ten seconds," she said.

She turned towards a door behind her that said Employees Only, opened it just a crack and shouted, "Oy! Can I get some help out here?"

Another girl came out promptly and took over Molly's station.

"Oh Molly I want _you_ to take my order!" A mustached man protested as loud groans resounded throughout the shop.

"Well you'll just have to put up with Lettie here," Molly retorted, lifting the wooden door of the counter to admit John. "I've got to talk with my brother!" She turned back to John, "Follow me," she said then she led him through the shop.

John followed her down a long corridor that split off into different rooms and sections as Molly made her way through the maze of the shop's brick wall passages, past the kitchens where John could clearly smell bread baking. Molly finally stopped when they reached the back of the shop where she admitted John into a large room filled with towering large crates and mounds of straw.

Once John was inside, Molly shut and bolted the wooden door behind him so that they wouldn't be disturbed.

Molly turned back to face her older brother.

"Before you say anything, John," she started, her brown eyes flecked with blue and blazing. That was weird, John momentarily mused. Molly's eyes were dark brown and without any traces of blue or green.

"You need to know I'm not Molly." She said, before taking a breath. "I'm Harry."

John stared at her. There were so many things to say, so many questions to ask. How is that possible? Where is your sister? Why are you here? But all that came out was "Oh."

John sank down onto the top of a crate beside him. His leg had begun to cramp up, and the effect was just hitting him now.

"Surprised?" Molly-_Harry_-asked with a small, uncertain smile.

"Not really," John said, rubbing the nape of his neck absentmindedly.

"You knew?" She asked, surprised.

"No," John shook his head, it was starting to ache.

"Then how'd you figure it out?" Harry asked, sounding disappointed.

"I didn't," he clarified. "But it was the little things that tipped me off. Your mannerisms for one thing. And the letters. Molly's were erratic and it was really weird that she never came to see me. While your letters always came on the same day, once a year."

"You always did like Molly better," Harry said with a sigh as she folded her arms over her chest and leaned against a tower of crates.

John didn't deny it.

"So whose idea was it," he asked, peering up at his sister's face, his chin in the palm of his hand. "Yours?"

"Molly's actually," Harry corrected with a tinge of annoyance. "She was here for a week before she rang me. You were still in hospital, she was so upset. She told me she was absolutely miserable here, but had to stay as she couldn't disappoint Mum. I tried to calm her down, and in the process admitted I was miserable at Fairfax's.

"It was just a bunch of reading and studying and I was bored out of my mind. To Molly, though, it sounded like heaven. She asked me if there was any way I could switch places with her? I agreed instantly, but admitted that I wouldn't know how we'd go about it. Molly said there must be some sort of spell we could use.

"It took a lot of books and dedication, but I found it. So claiming homesickness, I asked to go home and Fairfax let me. We cast the spell on ourselves and the next day Molly took the train back as me and I stayed here as her.

"The spell isn't going to last long," she said before John had a chance to ask. "As you can tell, it's starting to wear off and people are beginning to notice.

"We were both a bit worried that you'd notice the change, but you never came in. So I'd all but forgotten until you showed up here. I'm happy here. Cesari's is a great place to work and I'm really good at managing and baking. That raspberry croissant that everyone's raving about? That's a creation of mine. The Cesari's know their success is thanks to me and so they pay me incredibly well to stick around."

"So you're not drinking then?" John asked suspiciously, raising an evaluating eyebrow.

Harry rolled her eyes and scoffed. "No John, not since Molls and I switched places. It's hard to go out and get plastered when you're expected to come in at four in the morning and bake bread and pastries."

John nodded. "Okay. How's Molly then? Do you hear from her?" He licked his lips, trying to calm down.

"On occasion," she said, taking a seat on a crate next to her brother. "She rings me up, checks on me now and again, mainly asking after you. Today I'll ring her up and say that you know now." Her eyes softened. "She's worried about you, you know."

"Good. Well," John stood up, using his cane to steady him. "Glad things are working out for you two conspirators. Cheers." He walked slowly back to go out the way he came, but Harry, much younger than he and more agile, stood up and blocked his way. Her eyes glimmered with determination.

"_I'm_ worried about you too, you twit," she said fiercely.

John frowned.

"How are you?" she asked sincerely.

"Good," John cleared his throat at the unexpected question as he readjusted his stance. "Fine. Good. Everything's fine."

"Everything's _always_ fine with you," Harry snapped. "John don't you ever get mad? Mum-she's taking advantage of you. You look at the numbers the shoppe makes, don't you? So you know we're out of the hole now, right? So what the hell are you sticking around for?! You should be off, going to see the world-something! But instead you're here where she's got you slaving away! You're taking care of the shoppe all day while she's off spending the money the shoppe makes. She's got you wrapped around her manicured finger!"

John didn't deny any of it. He'd known for quite some time now that his stepmother didn't care about looking after the shoppe anymore. But he nonetheless defended her. "She's busy," He said instead. "I know she's busy. And besides, she's your mum. You shouldn't talk about your mum that way."  
"Yeah, I _know_ she's my mum, that's the trouble," Harry retorted with an agitated eyeroll. "I take too much after her, that's why I understand her. That's why she threw me and Molls out first chance she got.

"She knows how good you are and that you wouldn't leave us hanging if we were depending on you! But we're not! We're fine now, and she is just taking advantage of you! You're too-too-" she paused in annoyance, looking for the right word "-too crazy to be stuck in that shoppe all day! The John Watson I know wouldn't be wasting his life away here-"

"I'm not the John Watson you knew," John snapped. His eyes hardened, left hand beginning to tremor at his side. His body was betraying him; he felt exposed, weak by Harry's words.

There was a pregnant pause before John cleared his throat. "Listen do you have a back door? I have to get back to the shoppe."

They both knew he was lying.

Harry pursed her lips, but kept whatever comments she had from escaping and instead sighed loudly. "Yeah, I'll show you." She led him to a door at the opposite end of the room and held it open for him. John hobbled out through the back way.

"Tell Molly I say hello," he said as he hobbled past her.

"I belong here, John," she said as he passed. "You don't. That much is clear."

He didn't say anything as he continued to walk away from her.

"Think about what I said!" Harry called after him. "Go have your adventure!"


	3. Chapter 2: In Which John Feels Alive

**CHAPTER TWO**

IN WHICH JOHN WATSON FEELS ALIVE AGAIN

John limped away from Cesari's angrily. By now the crowds in the streets had become rowdier as the sun began to sink low into the late afternoon, and by then there were too many people pushing past John, as they rushed down the streets, for him to walk properly with all their jostling.

Blue fireworks shot out of the castle beyond the hills, and banging noises sounded so loudly from it, that instead of being far to the west, it was as though the castle was right in the middle of town, joining in on the festivities. The crowd, as if it were possible, got worse when John rounded the corner into the main square, just before he was to reach the shoppe. Men were barely keeping straight as most of them were drunk and teetering, clinging on to one another to stay steady. Entertainers were mixed amongst the crowd; those on stilts leered over heads, others juggled, while the towns-children ran circles all over the fire-eaters and sword swallowers. The jostling got worse as John tried unsuccessfully to weave his way through the crowd. Hot, searing anger boiled up in him as he grit his teeth through the pain that shot up his leg. John hated this God-forsaken town, he hated the people in it, he hated that he got shot in the war, that his father had died and left them in this position, he hated his body for being so weak, he hated his stepmother for keeping him here, he hated himself for letting her, and he hated Harry for being right about everything about him.

It was while John was hating on the world around him, that someone-Mike Stamford, John later realized-in his drunken disorderly state, shoved past him, causing John to lose his already precarious balance and fall forward.

"Hey!" John exclaimed, fully expecting to eat the cobbled street.

But he never ate the street, as John landed into a pair of arms. John found himself in the crook of one of the arms, where it would just bend. John's eyes traveled upwards, discreetly noting that the frame of his savior was slim and lean. He was dressed in a black frock cloak with a blue scarf wrapped around his long neck and his long face was crowned by dark curls. At last John's eyes met the stranger's. They were an icy blue.

He was so struck by the blueness of the stranger's eyes, that it took a moment for John to realize that he wasn't breathing. He realized still that he was staring a little longer than was considered polite by the quirk of the stranger's eyebrow. That was when John cleared his throat in embarrassment.

"Sorry," he mumbled apologetically as he straightened to his full height. Even at his full height, John realized that the man was still a good deal taller than he. "Thanks for catching me."

The stranger nodded in acknowledgement but remained mute.

It took fourteen and a half seconds for John to realize his hands were still clutching tightly onto the stranger's coat sleeves. "Oh," he said, releasing his hands and placing the butt of his cane down onto the ground, at his side once more. He could feel the creepings of a blush taint his face red. "Sorry." And John began to limp onwards.

The stranger stared at him for a few brief seconds more as John walked on, before he breezily brushed past John. But not before muttering just under his breath, low enough that he thought John hadn't heard, "Psychosomatic limp. Interesting."

John's eyes practically popped out of their sockets in shock, before he whipped around quickly to face the stranger. The man had already disappeared into the crowd of people. John stood on tip-toe to see if he could see where he went, but could find no trace of him.

* * *

John unlocked and opened the door to the hat shoppe, the bell on top of the threshold to the shop clanging, announcing his presence as the noise from the celebration outside began dying away as the crowd moved on to a different location.

He slammed the carved wooden door behind him and bolted it shut. He leaned against the door frame and sighed with self-loathing. He had spent the entire afternoon searching for that man-that man, who had guessed his limp was psychosomatic (he was right, of course, but how did he_know?_), that man whose eyes were so so blue. But of course he didn't find him; it was as if the guy had evaporated into thin air. Now his shoulder ached and his leg hurt like a bitch because he'd spent so long on his feet. He was glad that the shoppe was closed because of the holiday, and that everybody had gone to participate in the activities, leaving the shoppe empty and to himself.

John limped into the shoppe, taking a box of matches out of his pocket to light one of the nearest lamps, illuminating the inside of the shop with a soft, golden glow. John hobbled over to the sales counter, where he sat down onto the stool behind the counter. He huffed a shivery breath. He hadn't been able to run, but it took everything he had to hobble quickly through the crowd searching for the man although his leg screamed in pain. He hadn't felt that exhilarated in such a long time, the fact that he was realizing this now after five long, miserable years was more than just startling. The thought was scarier when he realized that not only had he felt exhilarated for the first time in years, but the fact that he felt so alive-not just existing, as he had since that day he'd gotten shot and for the past five years since then, as he went about his business day to day-but actually, genuinely _alive._

It was a bit unbelievable to say the least. That he'd spent the entire afternoon chasing after a man he knew nothing about, yet who seemed to know something about John-something that a lot of people didn't know about him. (Not that they even bothered to ask him, since they already avoided him like the plague.) It was crazy, absurd and downright ridiculous.

It was the best thing that had happened to him in years.

It was then that John realized, that Harry was right.

Harry, who spent her days causing all sorts of trouble as a youth, avoiding school like it was a minefield, was right. He was wasting his life in that town. He didn't belong there. It was as simple as that.

And he realized that if he stayed, he would surely die.

Not die physically, but his spirit would crumble and disappear and the thought that that would happen to him felt like a fate worse than death.

John decided. He would leave Market Chipping, and go seek his fortune. No, not his fortune. He was done seeking his fortune. He would go out and seek an adventure.

The bell above the shoppe door chimed, startling John out of his thoughts. He was glad he didn't have a gun on his person: there was no question at how quick he would have drawn it and killed without batting an eye.

The woman who breezed into the shoppe looked as though she were queen of the world, and as though the measly little hat shoppe and John were lucky that she was gracing them both with her presence.

She was dressed in rich, sweeping dark cloaks, her dark hair swept up and piled on top of her head in an intricate style. Her face was made of softened angles, with half-lidded eyes that shone bright and gleamed like emeralds. Her lips were full and red.

"Sorry miss," John said, blinking in confusion as it suddenly occurred to him that he'd shut and bolted the door. He was sure of it. "Shoppe's closed."

"Oh," her voice was as rich and smooth as silk. She pursed her lips into a pout and batted her dark eyelashes at him. "Couldn't you make an exception? Just this once?"

"Sorry," John said, feeling very uncomfortable by her. Something about her was off-putting and he was anxious for her to leave.

"Well I thought I would give it a shot," she sighed, somewhat dramatically, as though this was the very last place she wanted to be. That she'd rather be anywhere else but there like he did, and that this was a chore rather than an excursion for her.

"You're going to have to go now," John reminded her, tensing up a little. Why was she putting him so on edge?

"Yes, I'll be leaving in a moment, John." Her eyes flashed dangerously as she fixed them on him, freezing him right to the spot. "Right after I do what I came here to do."

John's blood ran cold through his veins.

"How did you know my name?" John wished desperately that he _did_ have his gun now.

"I have a gift for you," she said, going straight to the point, ignoring his question. She took an ungloved hand out of her cloak's pocket, tightly clutching something. "I say gift, but it's more of a warning."

She fixed her eyes on him. Her eyes glittered threateningly as she slowly raised her fisted hand up to her lips. She opened her hand, slowly, and without taking her eyes off John, pursed her lips like a kiss and blew the particles of dust out of her hand and it flew at John, enveloping him in a tight grip that made his breath catch in his throat.

The air around him felt warped, wrong and heavy, clouding John's judgement, making him feel dizzy and ill at ease as the room began to spin; the only thing that remained still while he began seeing double were the pair of emerald green eyes peering at him.

"That'll teach you to touch things that don't belong to you," the woman's voice said, casually pulling on a long glove back over her hand. John furrowed his eyebrows and blinked in confusion, it was so hard to concentrate while his mind was swimming but her voice had sounded...What? Sad? Was she sorry that she was doing this to him? He knew he'd guessed right when she looked away from him to adjust her glove.

"What'd you do to me?" His voice. Was that his voice? He sounded croaky. He clutched at his throat.

"Don't worry John," She said, turning toward the door, clutching the doorknob. "I'll let myself out." She turned back to him, her lips curved into a humorless smile. "It's nothing personal, dear-well, at least not on my end. Tell Sherlock Holmes that the Witch of the Waste sent you. He'll know who you mean."

John's face contorted in surprise as though he'd been struck in the face. "The Witch of the-"

"Hush now," she said, her voice soothing and soft as the room continued to spin. "Listen carefully, now-his part's important, Johnny boy. You won't be able to tell anyone you're under a spell, but Sherlock's brainy. He'll figure it out." The bell began to clang as she opened the door, but stopped as The Witch of the Waste left it open halfway. "Oh I almost forgot," she turned back to look at John. "Tell Sherlock I'm just the messenger. His real threat is on the way."

The bell chimed one last time as she shut the door behind her.


	4. Chapter 3: John Finds The Castle

**CHAPTER THREE**

IN WHICH JOHN FINDS THE CASTLE

Once the spinning had begun to subside, John slowly opened his eyes. By then the spinning had ceased all together. Slowly, John's hand reached up and clutched at his throat, perhaps he had imagined it then but before he had felt sagging skin. He was not imagining it. His hands shot out in front of his line of vision: they were wrinkled, with big, blue veins popping and his knuckles like knobs. John tore his eyes away from his hands. He slowly limped toward the lamp he had lit just minutes before, where a large oval mirror hung on the wall.

His heart pounded in his ears, the resonance alone sounded different. Which sounded ludicrous even to John; his heart couldn't sound differently. Surely he was mistaken. But it was as John stared with some disbelief at the reflection in the mirror that he realized that he wasn't mistaken. He had expected to meet his own face, but instead he was greeted by the image of a old man, at least forty-three years his senior. John looked over his shoulder-and caught a flash of the old man doing the same in the mirror. Suffice to say that there was no one else in the shoppe save for John. He turned back to the mirror, his brow furrowed in confusion. Experimentally, John lifted a hand to his face. The old man did the same. John leaned into the mirror. He and the old man-beneath the folds of skin that were his eyelids-shared the same dark blue eyes.

It was obvious by then that John had aged forty-three years in the last few minutes. There was no question it was the Witch of the Waste's doing. When one is faced in such a situation, there are several different feelings one can experience. Some would probably faint, or cry out, or become incredibly angry-indeed, I've no doubt that if I were placed in that situation, my reaction would most likely be the latter.

But John did not react as one would have expected.

For instead of doing any of those things, John laughed.

He laughed and laughed and laughed so hard, that tears had actually begun to well up in his eyes and make their way down his leathery, wrinkled face. He pointed to his reflection and continued to laugh hysterically until his sides ached.

"Well isn't this the way, old man?" He asked his reflection, wiping away a tear. "The day you decide to go off and find an adventure-you get cursed!"

He giggled a bit longer, then sighed as he began to sober up. "You can't stay here," he said, talking to himself, shaking his head. "Not that you were planning to, anyway. But now you _really_ can't stay; Fanny would have a fit and Harry would plan a witch hunt. No, the best thing to do is to go."

John, with his cane at his side, hobbled to another part of the shoppe. Luckily the distance from the shoppe's main room to the back room where John had inhabited for the past five years was blessedly short. It was strange, but John felt relatively the same considering his current state of age. The aches and pains in his leg and joints was still the same, the same creaks here and there. Apart from his stooped back, if John hadn't seen himself in the mirror he would never have known there was anything different about him. He probably would never have noticed as he woke the next day and made his way to breakfast, a smile formed on his face at his stepmother's shocked face at seeing an older version of her stepson at the breakfast table. The thought was almost enough to make him want to stay just to ensure his stepmother's predicted state.

Almost.

John fetched a bag he had used in his army days and silently and slowly packed all his clothes, his gun with it's questionable legality, and money he had saved over the past few years. He slung the pack over his shoulder before his left his room. John passed by the shoppe's main room, honestly not caring if the door to the shoppe was bolted or not as he made his way to the back door around the other side of the shoppe. He shut the back door behind him without a second glance.

He made his way determinedly over uneven streets, the pain in his leg subtle, but not enough to completely immobilize him. He had no clue as to where exactly he was going, or what his plan would be once he got there; the only consistent thought he had in his head said to keep going. It was like a mantra drumming in his ears, and it was the only thought he had for a long while. It wasn't until the pain in his leg and joints were so bad, that they forced John to stop that he realized he'd walked straight out of town, and had climbed over the rocky heather fields until he was perched at the very top of the roving meadows that looked down at Market Chipping.

John breathed in the fresh country air, the cool air filling his senses. He was pleasantly surprised that although his body had undergone a major transformation, his perfect eyesight was still the same. Indeed he could clearly make out each thatched rooftop, and could say with positive accuracy which was a business and which was a residence and even which business inhabited it or which person resided there. The May Day festivities had completely ended long ago by that point, and everyone had gone home. The town was fast asleep save for a few windows that were lit up, and two or three chimneys that smoke escaped from. The wide sky overhead was a smoky indigo, dawn close on the horizon, casting a light backdrop against the town's dark silhouette.

It was then that the wind kicked up, sending cold air that bit at John's nose and cheeks, and pierced like knives at his chest and back. He realized that the only thing keeping him even close to remotely warm was his dark coat.

"Fuck, it's freezing," John said aloud, his teeth chattering, as he wrapped an arm around himself. He turned the collar of his coat up, shivering as he did so. "What I wouldn't give for a cup of tea and a warm fire."

Just as the words had left his lips, a long black shadow stretched across John. He turned, not exactly sure what to expect, but nonetheless calm and unfazed at the prospect of danger.

Directly behind him was a big black thing.

That was the only way to describe it. It honestly looked like a scrapyard had been assembled together and was barely holding itself together as it balanced on two giant wrought-iron legs with claws for feet that dug into the earth as it walked, leaving potholes in its wake. The whole thing looked as though it were ready to crumble apart at any given moment.

John craned his head up, his back arching backwards slightly, as he relied on his cane to keep him from falling flat on his back. He stared up at the big thing, it seemed to stretch up and up and upwards for miles; almost tracing the sky. It was then that two tall, thin turrets caught his eye. John realized he knew those turrets. The smoked messages that billowed out of them was the only thing that had kept John with some semblance of sanity for the last five years.

It dawned on John that it probably wasn't good that the castle of the notorious mysterious wizard that had been terrorizing Market Chipping since his youth was currently looming over him. Most people's instincts would have screamed at them to kick it into high gear-limp or no limp-and return home and be content with their dull lives, never daring to venture out into the great beyond ever again.

But luckily our John is not most people.

Instead of running, John stood tall and straight-backed, watching the castle-it didn't look like one, he realized, apart from the battlements on the very far back of the odd-shaped thing-as it made its way closer towards him. The only thought running through his head was that there has to be a fire burning in order to make that smoke.

"Stop!" John cried just as he could begin to make out the underbelly of the castle.

The castle obediently complied, coming to a full, rickety halt. John could hear the engines and gears within shift noisily as they tried to catch up with the sudden change in their intended course.

The castle's legs bent and the castle sank downwards onto the ground. John hobbled towards a door that was just close enough to reach. He was astonished to find that what had appeared to be a door, had no knob on the outside. Puzzled, John made his way round the back to find another door with the similar problem. The cool wind outside had begun to pick up again and John was beginning to feel bitterly cold and positive that he'd freeze out on the hills before he found a third door. I say he found a third door, but it was more like the door found John.

It wasn't a grand, tall door with a shiny brass knob, or polished golden with intricately carved wood-just a small rounded door that was a gray-green color, the door's wooden surface rough to the touch. The only thing of significance was the diamond knob and the golden numbers nailed to the door. It read, oddly enough, 221B.

This was the true entrance into the castle.

John would later learn that the castle's exterior changed with both the wizard and his demon's moods (which was quite often). But I am jumping ahead.

John reached out a wrinkly hand, grasped the knob and to his immense relief, the knob turned, welcoming him into the castle.


	5. Chapter 4: And Enters A Bargain

**CHAPTER FOUR**

AND ENTERS A BARGAIN (OF SORTS)

The inside of the castle wasn't at all like what John had imagined as a young man. He had imagined something grand; like golden chandeliers hanging from the high ceilings, or marble halls or at the very least a swimming pool. But the interior that greeted him couldn't have been further from what he'd pictured. For one, there was only one large, wide room-though one wouldn't realize it was large at first glance-with stairs leading upwards to some unknown remote part of the castle. A giant fireplace took up most of the room, where a small fire glowed in the hearth, and dimly lit the room with a soft orange glow.

The room was filled with towers upon towers of books that stretched all the way up to the rafters of the low ceiling, with loose paper sticking out from in-between the pages of an occasional book. Underneath the stairs was a large alcove where it appeared to be used as a storage space for science equipment. On John's right, almost hidden in the forest of books was a long, beautifully carved table, but to his horror, the table had a bowie knife sticking out of it, puncturing it like a murdered victim. Beside the knife sat a brown aging adult human skull.

In front of the fireplace stood a large, red chair that had seen its share of battles and-like every other item in the castle-wasn't without its set of scars.

It was quite toasty inside, and John could already feel his body beginning to thaw out as warmth enveloped him into an embrace while he took in the sight of the cluttered room.

"This could be nice," John mused as he shrugged off his coat, hanging it on an iron coatrack that stood just beside the door. "Very nice, indeed."

The chair in front of the fire looked warm and very inviting and John thought as much as he sank down happily into it. He frowned though as he stared at the low orange flames of the fire. Looking around, John spotted a large bucket on the far right side of the room by the alcove which was used to store chopped firewood.

John steadied himself on his cane once more before going and plucking a large log from the collection and settling it into the ashy hearth.

He settled once more comfortably into the chair, noting with some astonishment how the chair seemed to mold itself into his shape. The fire crackled pleasantly, and though John had never once set foot into the castle, he never felt more at home in his entire life.

His eyelids felt heavy and John didn't fight to keep them open as they closed of their own accord. John wondered briefly, and with some concern, if he'd be turned out in the morning from the castle. But he pushed that thought aside; if he _was_ to be cast out, it only made sense that he should get as much sleep as possible right now.

And so he did.

* * *

John woke with a start. his breathing was rushed and ragged, sweat soaking through his clothes and his old heart hammering in his chest. He was used to the nightly terrors-as should be expected after living with them for five years-but John could never get used to how vivid they were sometimes, or how real they felt. He could still smell the gunpowder and feel the rough texture of sand caked on his lips.

John sat back against the chair, breathing deeply as he tried to calm down. In an attempt to distract himself from the nightmares of The War, John focused on the glowing fire in the hearth.

He realized that if he stared at the flickering yellow and red flames long enough, they took on shape and began to form what looked like a face. Two pieces of coals for eyes peered back at him just beneath the yellow. The face stared at John, and he stared right back at it.

"That is some curse on you, kid," a rough voice said from the hearth.

John's brow shot up. He might very well still be dreaming, because John could have sworn that the fire just spoke to him.

"And I've seen my share of curses," said a small mouth that flickered open, forming words while the flames danced. "But this one's a doozy."

John _had_ to be dreaming. The thought of _fire talking to him_ was too ridiculous to actually be happening.

The fire's eyes blinked and he-John _hoped_ it was a he, but that was ludicrous, giving the fire a gender-specific role-tilted his head slightly at him. "Who exactly did you piss off to get this sort of curse put on you?"

Somehow the assurance that this was a dream relaxed John, and so he sighed and shook his head.

"Haven't got a clue," John replied. "The woman who put this curse on me said she was just the messenger and it wasn't personal."

"It's certainly personal to somebody," the fire replied, his eyes travelling up and down John. "The detail went into this kind of spell alone is delicate and intricate. Very time-consuming."

"What are you anyway?" John asked.

"A fire demon," the fire demon replied.

John nodded. Of course, he thought. His subconscious was going all out on this dream of his. Why stop at making fire talk? Why not make it a fire demon as well?

The fire demon's eyes gleamed, and he licked his lips with a forked fiery tongue. "Why don't you make a deal with me?"

John frowned. "Why the hell would I want to do that?"

"You'd really be doing me a favor," persuaded the demon. "See I'm bound to this hearth by contract and can't move-"

"What does that have to do with me?"

"Well I can tell you a few things about your curse-"

"No need," John said. The Witch's silky voice caressed him, making John cringe at the memory. "The Witch of the Waste already told me everything I need to know-"

"Except how to break it," the fire demon interjected.

John gave small smile. Then he licked his lips in agitation. "Well. Yeah she did leave out that bit."

They were silent for a moment.

"So this contract you're under," John started, going back to the demon's original topic. "I'm going to go out on a limb and say it's between you and the wizard that lives in this castle right?"

"Naturally," said the demon. He frowned unhappily. "I'm stuck to this hearth and can't move a foot! I have to do all the magic around here-day and night, night and day! It never ends!

"Especially when he's bored-" the demon rolled his eyes towards the ceiling. John followed his gaze. "It's worse when he's bored. Because then he takes to _observing _people and making me smoke-signal all those stupid messages about his deductions-"

At this John snapped at attention. "So that's how he did it!" John cried, excitement seeping into his voice and a smile brightening his face. "I'd always wondered..."

The demon eyed John, evaluating him. If he'd had eyebrows, John was sure they'd be raised. "You..._like_ his messages?"

John nodded. "Yeah, they were the only part of Market Chipping I liked. Seeing them up in the sky-wondering and guessing what words there'd be next. In fact I wrote down every word that appeared in the sky since it began."

The demon was silent. He was in deep thought. Then a wide, scary smile spread across his face. "Kid, I could use you. You break me out of this contract, and I'll break your curse."

John frowned. "And how do you plan on doing that? I thought my curse was intricate."

"Kid just because a curse is intricate doesn't mean it still can't be broken!" The demon said. "So how about it?"

John frowned again. "What's the catch?"

"No catch," said the fire demon.

"I may be wrong," John said, furrowing his brow "but I _think_ you're lying."

The demon shrugged his-_it's_-invisible shoulders. "I might be. Who's to say, really?" There was a mischievous gleam in his eye.

John sat back into the chair, shutting his eyes. "Not interested. Break your own curse."

"No-wait-oh come on!" The demon sputtered, flames crackling. John opened one eye to peek at him. The demon looked desperate, his eyes pleading. John felt a small pang of pity for the creature. "The only catch is you'd have to stay here in the castle so that I could see how your curse works."

John sighed. "And how long would _that_ take?"

The demon perked up. "Does that mean you agree to our contract?"

John pursed his lips. "Yeah all right. Sure." Just go along with the dream, John, he told himself. It'll be over soon anyway.

The demon brightened, illuminating the hearth and sending sparks up the chimney in celebration.

John settled comfortably once more against the arm chair. "Now what are the terms of your contract so I can break it?"

"I can't say," the demon said, his spirits dimming. "Part of the contract says I can't tell anyone the clause of it."

"Can't tell the-" John sputtered. He was quiet, then began to chuckle, shaking his head. "Ah well. Just as I thought. Been tricked into a bargain by a dream."

"But if you stay and observe, you can pick up clues _about_ my contract that you can use to break it," the demon quickly added, clarifying it for John. "And I can see how that curse of yours works first hand."

"And how long would _that _take?" John asked again in a dry tone with half-lidded eyes.

The demon shrank a little into the hearth. "Two to three months."

John's eyes bulged out and he sprang forwards in his chair. "Two to three months?" He exclaimed.

"It's only a guess-but yeah thereabouts," said the demon. "That's my best guess at any rate."

"And your worst?"

The demon scrunched up his face. "A year...maybe two," he added quietly.

"What?!" John cried. "How the _hell_ do you expect me to stay here that long?"

"Well we'll just have to think of something-" the demon cried.

"No _you'll_ just have to think of something," John flopped back into the chair. "_I'm_ going to get some sleep." And forget this dream, he added quietly. As far as dreams went, this one was rubbish. Sleep began to overtake him again, drowning out the demon's muttering, and John convinced himself that it was only the sound of crackling embers.

* * *

"Kid wake up." said a voice in gentle soothing tones. "_Kiddd_. Hey kid! Wake up!" The voice rose into a shout.

John woke with a start, immediately his body ached in protestation as pains shot throughout his body. John winced and shut his eyes.

"Sorry, coulda woken you up better," apologized the voice. "But I had to get you up! He's bound to show up any minute and we need to get our story straight!"

"No, no," John said, tilting his head slightly to the side so his neck could crack. "S'alright, mate."

John opened his eyes and looked around the room. It was lit by sunlight that streamed in through the two long windows on either side of the door to the castle, but through the forest of books surrounding John and blocking the sunlight, it was hard to see properly. John was grateful the fire was still going, as that was the closest light to him.

"Just tell me what time-" John turned back to where the voice had been coming from, only to see the fire staring back at him. Or more accurately put: a face in the fire staring at him. "-it is." He finished in a quite murmur.

"Just past seven," said the fire to John, its lips curling and moving with the flames.

John was silent. He briefly, and absurdly, thought he was dreaming again.

"So." John said. "You're a real fire demon, then?" He asked, not expecting an answer.

"Yeah I'm a real fire demon," replied the fire demon.

John's eyes widened.

John definitely wasn't dreaming: the fire was talking to him.

"Ah," John said, licking his lips. "Right."

"So about our agreement-" started the fire demon.

"Whoa whoa!" John said, putting his hands up. "I didn't mean what I said last night! I don't actually want to get into a deal with you!"

"But that wasn't what you told me last night!" Protested the fire demon.

"Well I wasn't exactly expecting you to actually answer back!" John very nearly shouted. "I thought I was dreaming!"

"Believe me kid this is no dream," said the fire demon seriously. "And once you enter a contract with a fire demon, it's very hard to break."

"And yet you expect me to break yours with the wizard?" John asked, eyebrow raised.

The demon pursed his lips. "It's gone on far enough!" He said, crackling defensively. "And it needs to be broken! I promise, that the terms of our bargain haven't changed: I'll help break your curse if you break my contract!"

"No way," John shook his head. "Deal's off, fire demon-"

"Calcifer," the fire demon supplied.

John nodded in acknowledgement. "Calcifer. Sorry, but deal's off."

"I don't understand why you don't want to go along with it!" Calcifer cried. "The castle's nice! (Once it's been cleaned up, that is). You've got more books than you could possibly read! There's magic-and not just mine, but that wizard I'm in a contract with is pretty powerful too. There's mystery! And adventure! What more could you possibly want?"

John pursed his lips in thought. There was silence before John said, "Adventure, huh?"

Calcifer chuckled. "More than I can possibly say."

John was about to answer when a voice called up from upstairs. "Calcifer! Hot water!"

John turned at the noise. The fire demon sighed in exasperation. "Great," Calcifer said, in a less-than-enthusiastic tone. "He's up."

John's brow furrowed in confusion. "Who is?" He asked, turning back to the demon.

Calcifer gave him a look. "Who do you think?"

"-I think I've figured out the problem from yesterday's experiment," the voice from upstairs piped up again, as though carrying on a previous conversation. Light footsteps bounded down the stairs' steps. John briefly wondered how far that staircase went up. A tall willowy man dressed in dark pants and vest with a purple shirt descended down the staircase and paused at the bottom stair to look at the fire, "It wasn't the rat tails as I had originally thought, but the-" He looked up and his eyes met John's.

"Oh," was all he said as a reaction.

John's mouth dangled open in surprise. The disheveled dark mop of hair, those icy blue eyes as they evaluated John-even that bow of a mouth was hard to forget as the corners were turned down into a frown.

John recognized that man. For the tall willowy man was the same man who had saved him from eating the street at the May Day celebration the day before.

"And who might you be?" The tall, willowy man asked after a moment's pause, striding dramatically toward John and the fireplace. His voice was deep and intimidating as hell, which, John supposed, was probably the point. But John didn't let it faze him.

"I'm John," John answered. "I'm, er-" he quickly glanced around at the state of the room "-your new cleaning...person."

The man's eyebrow arched upward, and the corner of his mouth quirked in a smirk. "Is that so?"

"Yeah," said John. "Calcifer hired me. He hates the state of the castle."

"Really." He practically spat out the word. The man's pale eyes flicked over to the demon in the fire place. The demon in question was settled low among the logs in the hearth, and upon the man's penetrating stare seemed to shrink even further. "Mrs. Hudson!" the man suddenly cried.

"Wrong answer kid," the demon murmured to John.

A noise came from the top of the stairs and suddenly an elderly woman with a bird-like disposition emerged. "What is it, dear?" she asked in a soft, motherly voice.

"This man here claims to be our new cleaning person," the man said, turning to the old woman. "Undoubtedly he is lying, since that duty is yours as the housekeeper."

John's eyes widened. He whipped around back at Calcifer for verification. The demon shrugged his invisible shoulders.

"So this causes me to wonder," the man said, turning his evaluating eyes back on John. They practically burned. "What could he want?"

Suddenly a knock came at the door.

"Porthaven door!" exclaimed Calcifer with relief from his spot in the hearth. The man did not seem to acknowledge Calcifer's announcement as his eyes did not leave John for even a second. John returned the stare, not backing down from the scalding blue gaze.

The woman, Mrs. Hudson, without a second's hesitation scurried quickly over to the door where she murmured to herself as she fiddled with the locks before the door finally opened.

"Oh Inspector!" The woman exclaimed with delight, "my this is a surprise, isn't it?"

"Yeah, hi, Mrs. Hudson," came the answer from the door.

"Care for a cuppa, dear?"

"Love one, ma'am, but I can't. I'm here for business-"

Suddenly the man staring at John whipped around towards the door so fast that John was afraid he'd twisted his neck, but the man stood erect in place, his stance alert and his eyes shone with excitement at the unexpected caller. "There's been a murder," was his greeting to the visitor.

It wasn't a question.

John could not see the man at the door from his spot in the chair with all the books in the way. He leaned closer toward the fire, and only then could clearly see the visitor from the gaps between the towers of books. The man at the door-the Inspector-couldn't have been more than John's (actual, not current) age, with graying hair and a worn out look about his features. He looked surprised at the man's comment, but the expression was immediately wiped away as relief flooded his face.

"Yes," he said.

"You wouldn't come to me if there wasn't something unusual," the tall willowy man said, his eyebrows furrowing in what must have been concentration.

There was a pause. "You know the baker in Chipping who'd been involved in the underground ring?" asked the Inspector.

"Yes. He was sentenced in Kingsbury."

"Yeah well he escaped custody," the Inspector said.

The man's eyebrows came down in annoyance, and his eyes shone with obvious irritation. "Why didn't you come to me sooner? It should be obvious even to you that I would have caught him again, and just as quickly-"

"We just found him, Sherlock," The Inspector said, his patience obviously wearing thin. "He's dead. Hence my being here."

"Where was he found?"

"Behind one of the alleyways here in town, just past the shipping yard, with his throat slit open."

The man turned away, the fingertips of his hand on his lips in thought and he began speaking quickly without pausing for breath. "Obviously he wanted to escape Kingsbury, probably because of his sentence-more likely that he knew prison wasn't the safest place and so flew the coop. He wasn't very successful in escaping as whatever it was he was running from caught up with him and slit his throat."

"That's about the gist of it, yeah," the Inspector said with a tired sigh.

John looked on in amazement. This man-this _wizard_ had heard barely any details of the case, but had-there was only one word for it-_guessed _correctly about the entire situation.

"Will you come?" The Inspector asked.

"Who's on forensics?" asked the wizard, turning back to face his visitor.

"Anderson," answered the Inspector. The wizard looked very agitated at the answer. "He won't be your assistant!" cried the Inspector.

"I _need_ an assistant!" the wizard cried, in a tone that reminded John of a petulant child.

"Will you come?" The Inspector asked again in exasperation.

"I'll be behind momentarily," the wizard said, not saying any more.

"Thank you," the Inspector said after a slight pause which was meant as dismission. He went out the way he came in, the door snapping shut behind him.

The wizard stood there thinking for about five minutes, his hands steepled against his lips.

"Well this is all certainly exciting, now isn't it?" asked Mrs. Hudson cheerfully. "A nice murder...well it's just what you need isn't it, dear?" She asked addressing the wizard.

"He _knew_ he wouldn't be safe in prison," the wizard said, not acknowledging her comment. Evidently this was not the first time this had happened as she began walking back upstairs, shaking her head as though nothing could be done about it, with a smile on her face.

The man was once again carrying on one side of a conversation. He turned to face Calcifer, "That was why he escaped."

"He wasn't afraid of his conviction?" Calcifer asked, rising his head out from underneath the logs. "Escaping from prison-they don't take that very kindly do they?"

"No," the man said, his voice trailing thoughtfully. He squatted downward so that he was at eye-level with the demon. "He wasn't afraid. Not of the judicial conviction, anyway..."

John felt lost in their conversation. It was like watching a tennis match; their conversation volleying back and forth, back and forth...

There was a long pause, as though the demon and the wizard were speaking silently with their thoughts to each other.

"Which means," Calcifer supplied, a sudden gleam appearing in his eyes after a long silence.

"It was a punishment," finished the wizard, the gleam appearing in his own eyes. He smiled a wide, fiercesome grin and suddenly shot up from his squat beside the hearth and began dashing about in a flurry of activity.

"We've got a new criminal, eh, Sherlock?" asked Calcifer, laughter escaping his lips.

"Been quite a while since we've had one," smirked the man in agreement.

John stared incredulously. _Sherlock's brainy,_ the Witch's sultry voice echoed in his ears. _He'll figure it out._

So _this_ was the Sherlock the Witch was talking about, John thought. He smiled ruefully and shook his head. What luck he should land in _his_ castle, of all places...

"Well." Sherlock said. John looked up. Sherlock was staring expectantly down at him, with a dark frock cloak on and a blue scarf wrapped loosely around his neck.

John felt as though he'd missed something very important while he had been musing (a feeling that John would become intimate with during his stay in the castle).

"Well what?" asked John, furrowing an eyebrow in confusion.

"Are you coming?" Sherlock asked.

"What?" John's eyebrows shot up in surprise.

"Or you could stay in and _clean_," Sherlock responded with a distasteful sneer as his eyes flicked quickly around the room. John did the same. Honestly he wondered if cleaning a room whose mess was of such magnitude was even possible. "Or..."

"Or you want me to come with you?" John asked.

"Well I _do_ need an assistant," Sherlock replied. "And you'll do."

"Yeah thanks," John scoffed, looking away. He wasn't sure how to take that.

"Even if you are cursed."

John whipped back at him, his eyes wide. "How'd you..?"

"Curses," Sherlock said, his lips curling into a wide smile, "I can smell them a mile away." He turned and quickly went to the door, in three long strides, wrenched it open and shut it behind him.

John turned back to Calcifer, who stared at him expectantly. "Is he serious?"

"F'raid so," responded Calcifer with a pleased smile.

"And he's like that all the time?" asked John.

"Oh yeah. But you get used to it."

John turned away, pursing his lips thoughtfully. "Adventure, huh?" he asked.

_Tell Sherlock I'm just the messenger._

A wide grin spread on the demon's face. "Murder!" he whispered in a tone that was meant to entice John. "Magic! Mystery!"

John stared at the demon. A slow smile began to tug on his lips. "Calcifer you've got yourself a deal."

John grabbed his cane, hobbling past the books, walking away from the demon's celebration in the hearth as he opened the door and stepped out of the castle.

After the madman.

After Sherlock.

_His real threat is on the way._

* * *

_A/N: Apologies for the wait! But this chapter was a pain to try and carve out! This'll do it for the first part of our story; I'm hoping to have two more parts, each with four chapters. So all together it should be twelve chapters in three parts!_  
_I can't guarantee when I'll post up the next part, just know I'll be working on it!_  
_Thanks for the reviews and faves-they do me a whole world of good!_


	6. Chapter 5: Their first crime scene

**CHAPTER FIVE**

**IN WHICH JOHN ACCOMPANIES SHERLOCK TO HIS FIRST CRIME SCENE**

You may recall, from much earlier on, of the subject that was broached of how each person knew that Sherlock and John's association meant that their lives would change for the better. How did they know this exactly? Simply because they knew Sherlock, and knew how he acted; what was customary and what was unusual (or as close as would be unusual when it came to Sherlock for _everyone_ thought that he was unusual even by wizard standards).

In particular, DI Gregory Lestrade knew things would change the day he met John, which also happened to be the day that John and Sherlock went to their first crime scene together.

Looking back on it, Lestrade only chuckles to himself and shakes his head.

"It was all a bit bizarre to say the least. Sherlock normally would breeze in on his own, make his deductions then go off, insulting the Yard on his way out; like a tornado of insults and detection. But that day, here he comes to the crime scene with an _old man_ of all people! I thought that John was somehow relevant to the case, but it was the exact opposite: Sherlock had that poor old geezer bending down to his knees to help with the body when I had a perfectly good forensics team on standby!

"It really irked me that Sherlock was forcing this old man to do that-but then that old man turned out to be John so it turned out all right in the end. But at the time...It was clear that for some strange reason, Sherlock was _fascinated_ by this man. It took some time, but I realized that ever since he and John had stepped into that alleyway, Sherlock radiated good energy.

"Sure he got excited like this at all the weird cases, but whenever John said something, or caught on with his erratic train of thought, Sherlock got this _gleam_ in his eye. I've known Sherlock for five years-bloody bastard has barely aged, while _I'm_ a different story-but in all the years I've known him, Sherlock has _never_ displayed an interest in a living, breathing person before. That, you know, had nothing to do with a case. Hell this was the first time he'd ever brought anyone to a crime scene before-that alone must have meant _something_. At the time, if I hadn't know him better, I'd have said Sherlock Holmes was _smitten."_

This is what occurred.

* * *

Imagine for the moment, you're home-wherever that place might be: a country home while it's raining outside, a cramped apartment in the city in the sweltering heat. You go to open the door of your home, but instead of seeing the familiar view outside your front door that you had grown accustomed to over the years, you find yourself staring out at some place else. Some place you've never seen before.

This was the position in which John found himself that morning.

He had opened the door to the castle, expecting the heather fields of Market Chipping that he knew so well to greet him-only to be hit full in the face by a variety of smells, including fish, cool air and salt.

John's mouth hung open. He hardly knew where to look; there was so much to look at! There were people everywhere! It was like Market Chipping, with the crowds and the shouting and bickering and haggling, but with a few differences. Everywhere he looked, there were people milling about, a slight breeze that brought with it the smell of salt, the decaying aroma of fish, and even by Market Chipping's standards, the noise was deafening with the combined sounds of bells ringing, chatter, shouting, and bird calls.

He looked up at the sky; it was a cloudless gray blue, speckled with giant white birds with long wings and beaks that took to the air, crying loudly. He followed them until he saw something that completely took his breath away.

It was the sea.

Or at least, John thought it was the sea. But surely it must've been; it looked just like how it had in books he'd read back in school, with the black and white drawings and paintings and descriptions that accompanied it. John had never seen the sea before and was taken aback by the beauty of it. It stretched on for miles and miles-he wasn't sure if it really had an end to it or even what color it was, as it changed continuously from a deep blue to a light, foamy green.

John was so entranced by all that was around him, that he hadn't heard his name being called until the third or fourth time it was called out.

John looked up to see that the wizard Sherlock was a good distance ahead of him, on top of the sloped street and was turned toward him, calling his name.

John turned back toward the door, but found it already closed, so instead, with his cane in hand trudged upward.

Sherlock did not move until John was by his side, and then resumed his walk.

"Okay you've got questions," Sherlock stated after some silence.

"Yes," John said, "Where are we?"

"Porthaven," Sherlock said, as if it were natural to be in one place, then reappear in an entirely different part of the country nowhere near where you were when you began. But perhaps that was normal in the life of a wizard, John thought.

"Ah," John said instead. "And, ah, _how_ did we get to Porthaven?"

"Isn't it obvious?" asked the wizard, turning to look at John. When John failed to understand, Sherlock turned to look at him, very sarcastically, and, along with a waggling of fingers in John's face, said "_Magic_."

Sherlock turned back to looking ahead and walking. He then added, as though an afterthought, "It's an enchantment Calcifer has on the castle. It allows it to be in four different places all at once."

"That's extraordinary!" cried John, amazed.

Sherlock's gaze flicked toward John from the corner of his eyes. Then his gaze returned to staring ahead.

"So where are we going?" John continued.

"Crime scene."

"Yeah, but why?" asked John. "Aren't you a wizard? What is it you're expected to do at a crime scene?"

"I am a wizard," Sherlock began. "But I am also a consulting detective."

"Which means, what exactly?"

"It means whenever the police are out of their depth, which is always, they call upon me."

A question was on the tip of John's tongue, but then Sherlock unexpectedly turned left, his frock cloak trailing behind him. John limped after him. Sherlock led him to what was obviously the shipping yard, going by the fact that there were several boats and a crowd of people gathered around an alleyway that was blocked off by constables.

Sherlock strode ahead, as though he were entitled to be there; neither put off by the sight of the crowd or the constables. In fact a small path had cleared within the crowd as Sherlock stepped closer; thus giving Sherlock the luxury of not having to fight his way through like John had.

The constable closest to Sherlock gave him a stiff nod of acknowledgement, and though the head jiggle was polite enough, it was clearly evidenced by the man's face that he did not want Sherlock there; in fact there seemed to be some terror in the man's eyes when he caught sight of the wizard.

"He's with me," Sherlock said before the officer even had a chance to ask John when he approached. The officer nodded again in understanding.

Confused, John followed as Sherlock led them into the entrance of the dark alley.

"Oh no," said a woman coming toward them from the darkness. As the light hit her face, John noted the ferocity there as her mouth was turned down in disapprovement, her eyebrows knit together, and her dark eyes blazing. Her dark brown curls flew behind her as she marched toward them with purpose. John would have thought her pretty if not for the fact that in this moment he found her quite threatening.

"Ah Sally," greeted Sherlock, with a mirthless smirk and a tone dripping in sarcasm. "A pleasure to see you again."

An obvious lie that fooled no one.

"What are you doing here?" Sally asked, standing in front of them, arms crossed across her chest and her eyebrows quirked.

"Lestrade summoned me," Sherlock answered, his clear eyes looking her over.

Sally's eyes narrowed dangerously. "_Why?_" She spat out.

"I don't know," Sherlock answered, pausing briefly as though to consider it. "Probably wants me to take a look."

Sally continued to stare at him with seething fury. Sherlock met her stare with cold indifference. It was like a pool of molten lava rolling on to a frozen wasteland, and about just as effective.

John stood there awkwardly, watching the exchange before he cleared his throat.

Sally's attention was diverted at the sound, and she noticed John for the first time. Her brown eyes looked him up and down, an eyebrow quirked in confusion. "I'm sorry sir," she said, when she deemed him as harmless (and, as Sherlock would only be too happy to inform you, John Watson is anything but). "This area is restricted to civilians."

"He's old Sergeant, not stupid," Sherlock said blandly. "He's with me."

It took a moment for John to remember that he was at least three times his original age. Odd that he kept forgetting that. As though to punctuate that point, the joints in his back ached with a dulled pain.

Sally stared back at Sherlock in disbelief. "You? Why would he be with _you?"_

"He's a colleague," Sherlock said dismissively.

"A colleague?" Sally echoed, her mouth quirking in an amused smile. John frowned incomprehensibly; he didn't understand why she found what Sherlock had said to be funny. "Since when do _you_ have a colleague?"

John, growing tired with the exchange, and frustrated with the fact that there was a _dead body_ in the middle of an alley and these two were just standing here _bickering_, while there was a killer on the loose, interrupted pointedly. "Sorry I believe there was a dead body that you wanted us to look at?"

The full focus of both gazes turned to John in an instant. Sally's with that same fury and some confusion. Sherlock's was filled with something John couldn't identify.

After a beat, and a roll of her eyes, Sally turned on her heel and clip-clopped ahead of them; Sherlock followed on her heels breezily, and John limped behind them.

The alley was narrow, barely allowing three people to stand side-by-side-but as our trio was doing no such thing, that hardly mattered-and ominous. Darkness shrouded them like a coverlet. It wasn't until they were farther along the alley that sudden light erupted on the scene. John blinked as his eyes adjusted to the lanterns that were balanced on stands with uniformed officers milling around. All were in agreement that the alley was not as roomy as everyone would have liked, nor ideal for retrieving a body.

Dead center of the gritty alley lay the baker.

Sherlock stopped just in front of the body and John followed suit.

John licked his lips. It'd been some time since he'd seen a body and he was a bit surprised to find how comforting if felt to have someone dead at his feet once again.

The baker was at one time a handsome man. He'd had at one point dazzled nearly half the women of Market Chipping with his charming personality, good looks, and delicious croissants. When the police had broken up his smuggling ring-which was what the codes in the pies were: lists of items that held instructions for both pick up and delivery-it was then that the baker lost everything.

In the twelve years that he'd been locked away in prison and since John had seen him, the baker had lost all the hair on his head, and gained an atrocious amount of weight. His good looks were gone all together. John figured that his personality had not held up either due to the fact that he was lying face-up in a pool of his own blood on the floor of a dirty alley.

The pool of blood had spilt due to the large slit in the man's throat. His eyes were open in horror.

"Ah Sherlock," John jumped slightly at the new voice. The Inspector with grey hair from earlier approached them, followed closely behind by Sergeant Sally. John hadn't even noticed she'd gone. "Thanks for coming," he said with some relief. Sherlock hummed in greeting.

"How long has the body been here?" He asked.

"Couple of hours; pathologist puts the time of death to around midnight."

Sherlock hummed in agreement.

"Some kids found him," The Inspector said, confirming an unasked question.

Sherlock remained silent.

John noticed after some time that around them, a hush had fallen over the crowd of officers. John turned his focus back on Sherlock. The wizard looked entranced; as though lost in a world of his own. His clear blue eyes moved rapidly as he studied the scene. Every so often, he would tilt his head fractionally on either side, as though this allowed him to look at the scene from all angles. He pulled out a pair of gloves from some innermost pocket of his cloak and snapped them on. He flicked the tails of his cloak away from him as he crouched downward.

John, staring in fascination, was suddenly reminded of a cat stalking it's prey and at the same time, a bloodhound on the chase. It was like some sort of interpretive dance, a performance. Sherlock took one of the baker's big hands in his own, and examined each crack in the man's fingernails, analyzing the faded scars etched into his hand, seemingly to catalog it all. He inspected each part of the baker and the alley with as much precision and attention as he had shown to the dead man's hands. At one point, he'd even gone so far as to climb on to both rooftops of the buildings that made up the alley to inspect the area. Around him, everyone was silent. John appeared to be the only one holding his breath; as though one inhale of breath would break Sherlock's concentration. While in contrast, each officer was otherwise engaged in some form of self-grooming; others checking their pocket-watches for the time. But as a whole looking quite bored.

Sherlock paused only a few times to ask the Inspector-whose name was Lestrade, John learned moments later-a question or two, or to confirm something.

Finally he stood up. The movement was so sudden and sharp, that it caught everyone off guard. A sudden smirk spread across his face, as though he was immensely satisfied. It was like a predatory smile that suited a crocodile better than a human being.

"Well?" Asked Lestrade after a continued silence.

"Obvious what we're looking for," Sherlock rumbled, as though it were nothing.

"Sorry, obvious?" asked John dubiously.

Lestrade had forgotten about the funny little old man in the cardigan and cane.

"John what do you think?" Sherlock asked as he rounded on his companion, eyes focusing intently on him. His stare wasn't alone; curiosity had awoken in all the surrounding officers and they were staring as well.

"Of what?" John's brow furrowed in confusion, the officers' newfound interest was not lost on him.

"You've been in the army," Sherlock said matter-of-factly, though how he'd guessed that, John hadn't a clue. If he'd noticed the officers stares, Sherlock wasn't acknowledging it. Instead all his focus was on John; it was as though it were just him and John, and no one else. "Seen a lot of death. Plenty of dead bodies; several wounds." He swept aside gracefully, his cloak fluttering slightly with the movement of it so that John could take in the whole scene for himself. "Tell me what you think."

His eyes never left John's face.

"Hang on a tick, I've got a whole team that can do that-" Lestrade began.

"Yes and they won't work with me," Sherlock reminded him, eyes locked on John.

"Yeah but-"

"Do you want this case solved or not, Inspector?" Sherlock snapped sharply and impatiently.

John turned his gaze from Sherlock to Lestrade, his face asking for permission.

"Oh for the love of.." Lestrade exhaled tiredly, his hand scrubbing at his face. "Alright. Fine! He can have a look." Beside him, Sally bristled angrily. As though sensing her anger, which admittedly was difficult to ignore, Lestrade turned and, with her in tow, stalked off.

Sherlock bent back down beside the body. His eyes staring up at John as if waiting for him to duplicate what he'd just done. John groaned inwardly, and with some difficulty, joined him on the ground.

"What is it I'm meant to be doing?" John whispered, noting the returning stares of the officers.

"Helping me identify the wound," Sherlock whispered back, with some amusement in his voice and a glimmer of something in his eyes.

"I'm not a doctor," John said, frowning.

"No, but you know wounds. You know death and the different ways to end a life," Sherlock explained, his eyes practically sparkling. "Therefore you can identify the type of knife that was used to end the baker's life."

John stared. Sherlock stared back. They continued to stare at each other for some time. John finally sighed, and fixed the baker with a look.

The separated skin on the baker's throat had been cut evenly; the cut was so smooth and swift, that killing him would have taken only one stroke.

"The knife would have had to have been something with a smooth, but sharpened edge," John said after a time.

"Good," Sherlock nodded, eyes fixed on John, fingertips together and steepled under his chin.

John stared back down at the body. "Had to have been..twelve inches long, going by the size. Thin blade, but with a curve, I should say."

"Just as I was thinking," Sherlock supplied.

John frowned. He knew this wound; it tickled the edge of his memory.

"This knife is used mostly for close-combat killing." He paused in thought as the memory of it hit him full in the face. "This is an assassin's knife!" John exclaimed in sudden realization.

A smile lit up Sherlock's face. "Excellent John! Yes! Exactly!" He said with pride. Pleasure at his companion's praise bubbled up in John's gut.

"But." John frowned in puzzlement. "Why would an assassin target a baker?"

Before Sherlock could answer, Lestrade had returned. "Okay Sherlock, I'm going to need everything you've got." He said.

Sherlock blinked before standing elegantly. John stood using the aid of his cane, looking very clumsy in comparison. Then again, he _was_ a seventy-five year old man, so nobody held that against him.

Sherlock turned to Lestrade and in one breath said, "You're looking for a man, short in stature but agile." Before Lestrade could ask how Sherlock knew that, he was off again like a rocket, "Small, size eight footprints all around here; including on top of both rooftops. While in comparison our baker has remarkably large feet and was running, judging by his footprints leading up to this point. So who was trying to kill him? A small man, who is trained to scale buildings and leap about from rooftop to rooftop-what sort of man is that? Trained circus performer."

"Who murders people," John pointed out thoughtfully. Sherlock seemed to brighten with it as he continued.

"Ah so a trained circus performer who moonlights as an assassin for hire. Conclusion: our assassin was tailing the baker for some time, jumping from rooftop to rooftop in order to apprehend him. Our baker had thought he had lost his would-be killer in this alley. He thought wrong. The assassin was hiding on the rooftops, lulling his prey into a false sense of security before he attacked. He scaled down the walls, snuck up behind his enemy and slit his throat in one swift cut."

Once again silence fell, but this time it was a stunned silence.

"You got all that from footprints?" Lestrade asked in disbelief, quirking an eyebrow.

"Brilliant," John murmured quietly. Sherlock glowed.

"Okay so where is our killer now?" Lestrade asked.

"Gone with the night," Sherlock responded. "Miles away by now, I imagine."

"Well that's just great," Lestrade asked. He seriously wanted to pull out his hair with the frustration of it all.

"But don't worry," Sherlock continued, gaze shifting back to Lestrade. "I know a man who can catch him."

"Who?"

"Me," Sherlock smiled cheekily. The bastard, thought Lestrade.

With that, Sherlock turned briskly and started back to the entrance of the alley, cloak trailing dramatically behind him. "Come along John," his voice echoed along the alley's walls.

With a slight smile and a nod of thanks, that little old man hobbled behind the detective.

"What the fuck was that about," Lestrade couldn't help but ask as he watched the strange duo exit the crime scene.


End file.
